


there is no romance in suffocation

by tgtchm



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, Richard Hammond's Crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 12:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12507892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgtchm/pseuds/tgtchm
Summary: memories of their holiday on the Isle of Man—such a joyous time—contrast starkly to the here and now: Richard, in a hospital bed, in a coma.





	there is no romance in suffocation

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally published on the 31st October 2015 (by me under a different username) and I'm reuploading it now as a process of moving my works from one account to the other. it's been edited for punctuation errors but nothing else.
> 
> this was written for the "create something you wouldn't" challenge

“James.”

“Jeremy.”

“You heard?”

“No one told me. I heard it on the radio. I’m on my way to Leeds now.”

“So am I. I’ll probably beat you there. Do you know anything? Other than what you heard on the radio?”

Press clutch, shift up. Indicator on, pull out, overtake. Foot down on accelerator. This is familiar, he knows this.

“No. They said… Jeremy, they said he was in critical condition.”

James sounds scared. James is never scared.

“I know. I _know_.”

Shift down. Traffic. He can’t deal with traffic, needs to get there now.

“What if…”

“Don’t, James. He’ll pull through. He’s a fighter. That’s all he does.”

He sounds so sure. He’s lying to himself. He has no idea.

_What if?_

He hangs up on James and puts his foot down. He can do this.

 

_back_

 

“Clarkson!” Richard cries, his face lighting up with a grin as he enters the terminal of Isle of Man airport.

Jeremy strides forward and pulls the shorter man in for a hug, mildly surprised at his enthusiasm. They haven't seen each other for a couple of months—a side effect of filming having finished and unusually busy schedules keeping them all apart—but Richard isn't usually _this_ enthusiastic. Oh well, he supposes—he’s probably just glad to get away from London for a while.

"How was your flight?" Jeremy asks, striding towards the luggage carousel, leaving Richard to trot to keep up.

"It was alright." Richard shrugs. "I was next to a little old lady who recognised me. She was very friendly."

Jeremy winces. The entire point of this trip is to give Richard a break from the public eye, a temporary respite before they begin filming again in less than a month, before they are all thrust back into the view of the world. Being recognised on the flight over is less than ideal, and he hopes no one would stop them here in the airport, either.

"Little old ladies aren’t exactly our target demographic, so she must have seen your ugly face on daytime television,” he points out, watching Richard from the corner of his eye.

Richard, having caught up now, rolls his eyes as he jogs along. "Thanks to the bloody papers, she recognised me as ‘that nice chap from the car show who got divorced recently’. She was very concerned about my mental health. She kept touching my knee!” he finishes with a wail.

Jeremy sniggers. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a new girlfriend already.”

Richard frowns, and Jeremy could kick himself. Why does he always say the stupidest things? It’s like he opens his big mouth and words fall out of it, bypassing his brain entirely. "Sorry, mate," he adds hastily. "Let's forget all about it and get totally pissed, shall we?"

Seeing Richard grin makes him feel giddy.

 

_forward_

 

The emergency ward of the hospital is busy, bustling with doctors and nurses hurrying about. He spots James immediately, looking miserable and forlorn, an isle of stillness in the chaos of the room.

“James?" Jeremy says, panting, grabbing James by the arm, foregoing all of James’ pedantic rules about personal contact. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," James replies, his voice unusually sharp, eyebrows furrowed, not even seeming to notice Jeremy clinging onto him like an oversized limpet.

Jeremy bites his lip, eyes scanning the room. He's just about to accost one of the nurses walking past, grab her and demand that she show them to Richard's room, when Mindy walks in.

"Oh, Jeremy," she murmurs, coming up to him and sagging against his chest. He closes his arms around her, more out of instinct than anything else; he hasn't been this close to her before.

"I know," he replies, unable to say anything else. "I know."

She wipes her eyes and pulls back, nods at James. "Thanks for coming. Both of you. I really appreciate it."

"We're his mates," James says, simply.

Jeremy smiles sadly. Oh, if only they knew.

 

_back_

 

“Okay, Jeremy, when you said ‘lobsters’ earlier I thought we’d buy ones from, you know, a shop.” Richard grimaces, staring at the boat like it’s going to leap up and eat him.

Jeremy looks at the boat, then back at Richard, and shrugs. “Lobster is the only seafood you eat, yes? I thought we could get the freshest ones possible.”

“At sea?!” Richard cries. “In a dinghy?”

“The boat may be a _little_ small, but it’s seaworthy, Hammond, I promise you,” Jeremy says, gesturing wildly at the little boat he’d borrowed off a neighbour, bobbing gently in the waves. “You made a boat out of a campervan and you’re afraid of this?”

Richard shoots Jeremy a look, and he grins. He knows that look—a look of defeat, of concession—and he knows that Richard will follow him as he starts down towards the boat.

“It will be _fun_. I promise!”

***

Richard, as it turned out, had gotten monumentally seasick, and Jeremy had been forced to turn the boat around before they’d gotten more than a mile offshore, declaring the afternoon to be a horrendous failure.

He looks up from pouring them both a pint as Richard pads into the kitchen, looking around the house appreciatively. “You’ve got a bloody mansion here, Clarkson. Cock shaped, for a cock of a man,” he says, snatching the glass out of Jeremy’s hands.

Jeremy sniffs, watching the way Richard pulls at his beer, admiring the way he licks his lips. “You’re just jealous. If there were a house shaped like you it would be the size of a protozoa.”

Richard laughs and heads into the living room, poring over the furniture like he’s in Ikea. “Yeah, yeah. Christ, I never realised the difference a woman’s touch made to decorating. Where did you get this chair? 1976?”

“Oh, fuck off, Hammond. As bachelor pads go, it’s pretty good. Certainly better than Hammersmith, for God’s sake.” Jeremy follows him and gestures to the huge house, which, admittedly, is styled for comfort rather than—well—style.

Richard scans the house, turning in the spot, before fixing his eyes on Jeremy, who sucks in his breath sharply, taken aback at how acutely Richard is studying him, looking all the way from his toes to his head.

“It’s alright.” Richard shrugs, shoving the now-empty beer glass at Jeremy, indicating he wants a refill.

“What do you want for dinner?” Jeremy calls as he pours them both some more.

“Anything but your cooking, please, Clarkson. This is meant to be a holiday, I don’t want to spend _all_ of it being violently sick,” Richard yells.

Jeremy walks back into the living room with the beer to find Richard studying his DVDs. “You’ll just end up drinking too much and being sick—as per usual. Don’t need any help from me there.”

Hammond sticks two fingers up in his direction and frowns. “Shit selection here, mate. It’s all old war films.”

“Not everyone gets intellectually stimulated by idiotic American films,” Jeremy replies, dryly. “Come on, we’ll go down to the pub.”

“You have a pub out here?” Richard asks, surprised, and Jeremy laughs.

 

_forward_

 

“It’s not looking good,” Mindy chokes out, her hands gripping a cup of cold tea so hard the plastic cup is beginning to crumple. “The doctors don’t know his prognosis. They keep—they keep _hurting_ him to get a response.”

Jeremy says nothing, just hands her the cigarette—he's down to his last one. She takes it and inhales in a long, shaky drag, fingers trembling so hard the orange tip looks like a blur in the night. She passes it to James, who sucks on it like it’s oxygen and he’s drowning. They all are.

“God, I never wanted this,” Mindy says, quietly, and begins to weep again.

“I joked about it with him,” Jeremy croaks. “I… I cocked about with him that he might die. I can’t…” He trails off, unable to finish his sentence.

James meets his gaze above Mindy’s head, eyes soft and full of sympathy. “I did too, Clarkson. We didn’t think…”

“None of us did,” Jeremy finishes, taking the cigarette from James’ outstretched fingers.

 

_back_

 

“Morning, Jeremy,” Richard says as he walks into the kitchen the next morning.

Jeremy turns and chokes on the piece of bacon he is eating. Richard is pulling on a t-shirt, allowing Jeremy to get an eyeful of his chest and stomach, the fine hairs trailing from his bellybutton down—

He quickly turns back to the hob, turning the sausages, trying to disguise the blush creeping its way up his neck. “Morning, Hammond,” he replies, tucking that thought away for later.

“You’re cooking?” Richard asks, coming up behind Jeremy and peering over—or rather, around—his shoulder. “Jesus. I hope I don’t get dysentery.”

“You ungrateful pikey. I go out of my way to do something nice for you and this is what I get in return,” Jeremy complains, trying desperately to ignore how close Richard is, and how it sends shivers up his spine whenever their arms brush.

Richard leans against the counter, facing Jeremy, and scrutinises him. “Is this your way of feeling sorry for me?”

“Hammond, I don’t feel sorry for anyone. Sympathy is simply not an emotion I have ever felt,” he responds, turning off the hob. “This is merely an opportunity to improve my useless cooking skills.”

Richard just looks at him, gaze intense and eyes dark, and Jeremy has to look away, slightly unnerved at the way Richard can make him feel just from a look. They’ve always been different, him and Richard—something always hung in the air with them, something heavy and rich, something defined by lingering touches and poignant glances. Not that it really matters in the end, he realises grimly. Even if he is—well, _gay_ (which he’s not even sure if he is) Richard probably isn’t, and who would go for him, anyway? Fat and ageing and going bald. And with a cock shaped house.

Besides, Richard is here to relax, to get away from the papers and the photographers and everyone asking him questions about it all, not for Jeremy to admire him. Not that Richard makes it easy for Jeremy to relax, really, since he looks incredibly attractive doing anything.

Richard looks down and mumbles something, jerking Jeremy out of his stupor.

“I can’t hear you all the way down there, Hammond,” Jeremy says, plating up their breakfast, trying to calm his nerves. It’s just Richard, for God’s sake, just one of his best mates.

“I _said_ , I might do some painting today,” Richard snaps, chin jutted out, on the offense already.

Jeremy shrugs, pulling out a chair and sitting down to eat his—admittedly miserable looking—breakfast, but inside he’s smiling. Richard hasn’t painted for months now, since before the divorce. This is a good sign.

***

The days pass in a haze of lazy hedonism, the both of them drinking freely during the day, working their way steadily through Jeremy’s wine cellar (something Richard teases him for even having in the first place). They lie around and watch films, or go for drives in Jeremy’s Land Rover, and Jeremy even manages to drag Richard out fishing once (although they both hate every moment of it due to the rain and Jeremy's inability to catch anything, and subsequent moaning). Richard spends more and more time painting, something that pleases Jeremy to see.

And through it all, Jeremy falls a little bit more in love with Richard every day.

He’s resigned himself to it now, completely given into his feelings. He doesn’t act on them, of course—for once in his life he is being cautious, he knows that to rush into this could ruin everything—but he recognises that they’re there, and often finds himself staring at Richard when the other man isn’t looking. Sometimes, Richard catches him staring, and something inexplicable and incomprehensible passes between them as they lock eyes, before one of them breaks eye contact, and they both pretend it never happened.

Perhaps he is gay after all, and it’s taken him forty six bloody years to realise it, a lag so monumental it’d normally be reserved for James. But it’s not as if he doesn’t enjoy fucking women—he does—but rather that he’d quite enjoy fucking Richard, too, watch him come undone, lips parted and eyes closed and hair messy, rutting against each other like animals.

Away from London, away from work and the BBC and everything else, they both begin to relax, completely and totally, and it makes Jeremy happy to see Richard loosen up, after the past few months of hell he’s been through.

“I painted your Land Rover,” Richard says one day as they’re down at Jeremy’s local, having a pint.

“You what? Why would you paint that old banger?” Jeremy asks, incredulous.

Richard shrugs, shoving a handful of crisps into his mouth. "It was there. I got sick of landscapes."

"Your hamster attention span revealing itself once again," Jeremy quips, snatching a few crisps for himself. "Is it good or rubbish? The painting, that is."

"Well, _I_ don't know, do I?" Richard snaps, before sighing, turning his contrite eyes on Jeremy. "I'm sorry, Clarkson. I mustn't snap at you."

"No, you bloody well mustn't, since I welcomed you into my house for a seaside holiday. I didn't realise my poor Land Rover would get defiled in the process."

Richard laughs, and to see him smile makes Jeremy's chest lighten. He tries to ignore the way Richard's eyes linger on his face for just a bit too long to be polite, swallowing down the nervousness that blooms in his stomach.

 

_forward_

 

"Any news?" Jeremy asks, rubbing his eyes.

James shakes his head, eyes scanning the waiting room, unable to look at one thing for too long. "They won't tell us anything because we're not family. They won't tell Mindy much more because she's an ex-wife."

Jeremy clenches his fist. He has avoided spending time in this tiny, cramped little room that the hospital has provided for them to wait in, only because it feels like the walls are pressing in around him when he does. James has spent the time watching quietly, fading into the wallpaper. Jeremy knows it's his coping strategy, that inside, James is roiling and roaring like the rest of them.

"And Andy?"

"Ask him yourself." James shrugs, just in time for Andy to walk in the room.

It takes every little bit of strength Jeremy has to not punch him right then and there, that and he's never really punched anyone properly before. Logically he knows it's not Andy's fault, that Andy would have only gone ahead with the piece if he was personally assured that everything possible was done to assure Richard’s safety. This was a freak accident, one any of them could have had, doing any number of stunts over the years. But he doesn't _want_ to be logical right now, he wants to let all the emotions running through him bubble to the surface. Controlling his temper, he unclenches his fist and takes a deep breath.

"How is he?" he asks, a note of desperation in his voice.

Andy rubs a hand over his face. "Not great."

Those two words are like a bucket of ice water to his face, and he turns and stumbles out of the room, heading outside, where the cool air on his face calms him, just a little bit. He can't do this, not now, not after what happened.

 

_back_

 

“Wow,” Jeremy says, once they’ve safely reached home, both completely pissed.

Richard holds up the painting for him to see, and he’s impressed. He’s seen a few of Richard’s pieces before but this shows a level of technical fluidity that would go over his head when he was sober, let alone legless drunk. In Richard’s eyes, the Land Rover is transformed from a dirty, muddy mess into a genuine piece of art.

“You like it?” Richard says, eyes studying Jeremy carefully.

“Mmmph, Hammond, I never knew you were that talented,” Jeremy slurs, turning his head to the side. “Well, for a hamster. What else have you done while you were here?”

Richard puts the painting on the floor. “Just a lot of seascapes. The palettes here are so interesting, nothing like at home. Everything is so _vivid_ here, especially now, in summer; all the colours are so bright and colourful. Even when it’s sunny, the blue is not quite the same—”

“Hammond,” Jeremy hiccups, swaying a little on his feet. “I’m going to have to interrupt you there, because I really am very pissed, and I need to lie down.”

Richard screws up his face, burps loudly, and stumbles forward into Jeremy, so he’s pressed up against his chest. “I think that’s a good idea,” he murmurs.

“Fuck—Richard—get off.” Jeremy shoves the younger man backwards, but he just comes right back to lean on Jeremy again, sighing happily, craving human contact.

“You’re so warm,” he mutters into Jeremy’s chest, the words vibrating through Jeremy’s entire body.

He feels himself getting hard, and fucking hell, that’s the last thing he needs right now. As nice as it feels to have Richard rubbing up on him like a cat in heat, lithe and sinewy like he is, it’s not appropriate, not now, and not ever.

He pushes Richard away to arms’ length, staring into his eyes. “Go to sleep, Hammond.”

Richard sulks, turning away with a sniff. “Fine. G’night, Jeremy.”

***

“I am never _ever_ drinking again,” Jeremy groans, flopping down onto the couch into the sun room where Richard is painting, trying to ignore the way his head feels like it’s been run over.

“You say that every time. You didn’t even have that much, anyway,” Richard sighs, eyes not moving from the canvas.

Jeremy frowns. “At least I am a _respectable_ drunk, unlike someone in this room whose name I shall not mention.”

Richard glares at him at that, but a smile is twitching at the corner of his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies stubbornly.

“Rubbish. You don’t remember coming over like a virginal maiden? ‘Oh, Jeremy, you’re so warm and soft, however can I resist—’”

“Get out, you pillock!” Richard stands up abruptly, but he’s laughing. “I’m trying to paint, here.”

And he flings the paintbrush at Jeremy, where it lands squarely in the middle of his chest, paint splattering all over his favourite shirt. Jeremy looks back up at Richard, who is doubled over laughing now, and in two strides, crosses the room, dips his fingers into the white paint and smears it in Richard’s hair.

“Not my hair!” Richard squeaks, picking up a tube of blue and squirting it all over Jeremy, who responds in kind by throwing the nearest pot of paint—which happens to be red—at him, covering him from head to toe.

Richard looks down, horrified to see the crimson paint splashed all over his clothes, even his shoes. “Right,” he growls, picking up a tube of burnt umber. “This means war.”

***

They end up breathless with laughter, both looking like a Jackson Pollock painting—although Jeremy’s head is conspicuously unmarred, mainly due to the fact that Richard can’t reach up that high. Jeremy reaches out and smears a light yellow on Richard’s cheek, letting his thumb linger, brushing Richard’s cheekbone gently.

“You bloody great orangutan. You completely ruined my painting,” Richard sighs, pointing at the ruined canvas, which is covered with wayward paint and even a footprint.

Jeremy laughs, but he’s not really focusing on the painting. Richard has never been this beautiful, with white paint splattered through his hair, a smear of yellow on his cheek, a splash of red on his chin. His eyes are big and brown and as they both stand there, chests heaving, something in the atmosphere abruptly changes, and they both step forward in sync.

“Jeremy,” Richard breathes, his hand coming up to wipe at a smear of paint on Jeremy’s forehead, his fingers feather-light.

Jeremy doesn’t say a word, too scared to break the silence in case Richard bolts, just watches as the younger man rubs at the paint. Richard’s hand settles on Jeremy’s shoulder, a little bit awkwardly, and he waits.

They lean in, closer and closer, until Richard’s chest is pressed up against his, and he’s looking down at Richard, who licks his lips, eyes flicking all over Jeremy’s face. God, this might be the biggest cock up of his life so far, but when Richard is _looking_ at him like that—he leans in, head dipping down, and their lips are about to touch—

And Richard shoves past him, muttering something about needing a shower.

 

_forward_

 

“Jeremy,” James sidles up to him quietly. “Are you going to come inside? You’ve been out here chain-smoking all night.”

“It’s keeping me sane,” Jeremy mutters around a fag, staring out over the horizon, where the sky beckons, black as ink and full of stars.

James looks at him, eyes measuring him. “You need to eat.”

“I don’t.”

“You do. Clarkson, that’s an order,” James says, quietly but firmly, and Jeremy knows better to argue with him when he gets like this.

“It’s not fucking fair,” he mutters, throwing the fag over the balcony railing, shoulders hunched. “Why now?”

James doesn’t know what he’s on about, just takes him by the elbow and leads him inside, level-headed and cool in this crisis.

It’s not fucking fair.

 

_back_

 

"Fuck. Hammond," Jeremy murmurs, unsure of what else to say.

They had ventured to the top of the lighthouse to peer out over the water, to have a beer watching the sea crash upon the rocks. It was then that Richard had presented him with the painting; simply pulling it out behind his chair and handing it to him wordlessly.

It’s a beautiful watercolour, different to the Land Rover painting, which was done in oils as far as he could tell. The colours are muted, washed out, dull blues and greens and greys perfectly snapshotting the bleached palette of the Isle of Man landscape on an overcast, rainy summer day, of which they’ve had a few the past week. The subject of the painting is himself, Hammond having painted him on a sort of three-quarter angle, staring out onto the sea, the lighthouse in the background. He looks different, though: softer, less angular, younger, _beautiful_. He stares at the painting, taken aback.

“This is… I—Hammond, it’s me,” he splutters, taking the paper from Richard’s hands, examining it closely.

“I know,” Richard says evenly, watching him closely.

He looks from the painting to Richard. “Is this how you see me?”

Richard leans forward at that, so abruptly close that Jeremy jumps. He watches as Richard blinks, lashes fanning against his cheek, mouth twitching slightly. “No,” he whispers, touching his forehead to Jeremy’s. “I can’t paint what you look like to me. That is a poor imitation.”

Slowly, heart thumping hard in his chest, Jeremy dips forward, watching Richard’s eyes the whole time, waiting for him to push him away, but he doesn’t, and their lips meet.

Instantly, they both react, shuddering closer to each other, Richard’s arms coming around to wind around his waist, Jeremy’s hands delving into Richard’s hair. Their tongues touch, and Richard shivers, wriggling closer, practically in Jeremy’s lap now. They kiss frantically and hungrily, Richard making little huffing noises as he wrestles closer, fighting for dominance. Jesus, he’s never felt this alive before, sensations all buffering him at once, and it only just dawns on him that this is _Richard_ he’s kissing—Richard’s stubble grazing against his face, Richard’s hands scrabbling at his shirt, and instead of making him tear away in horror he he grabs Richard by the belt loops and pulls him closer, the knowledge of the familiar and the alien all coming together at once.

“It's you, it's always been you," Richard gasps into his mouth, and Jeremy knows exactly what he means.

 

_forward_

 

“You can go in now,” the stony-faced doctor says with a wave of his hand.

Jeremy looks at James, who looks back at him, and they both steel themselves quietly, drawing themselves up before stepping into the room as one.

Richard is lying on the bed, looking tiny surrounded by all the machines beeping and pulsing, keeping him alive. There is no blood, no bits of bone sticking out; it is just Richard, albeit bruised a little bit. His left eye is swollen, the whole area around it raised and red and sore; a tube is shoved into his mouth, drips in several places up and down his arms. He is completely, utterly still.

Jeremy clenches his teeth, resists the urge to scream and hit something, instead moving closer to the bed, touching Richard’s hand gently. He looks up at James, who, to his surprise, is crying silently and unapologetically. He blinks, hard, unable to stand the sight of that.

“I’m sorry,” James says, patting Richard’s hand. “Please wake up.”

And then he turns and is gone, leaving Jeremy in the room alone, alone with Richard, who is somewhere far away.

 

_back_

 

The rest of the holiday was spent, quite literally, in each other's arms: after Richard had presented Jeremy with the painting, they hadn’t strayed far from each other. Of course, this made the time pass all the more quickly, and soon they were boarding a flight home, where they went their separate ways.

“It’s always been you,” Richard said, again, as they said goodbye at the airport terminal. Jeremy had just nodded and given Richard a quick hug, unable to say goodbye the way he wanted to, not in public.

The first time Richard had come over, Jeremy had worried that it would be too awkward, too humdrum in the context of their normal lives; something about the Isle of Man and the house there seemed, looking back, to be almost magic. It wasn’t, of course, it was just a damn good holiday.

Not that he’d had any reason to worry. They had slipped immediately into a comfortable relationship, still as good as friends as ever—their weekly custom of a film and takeout hadn’t changed a bit—but now with an added element of physicality. It was easy, being with Richard. It felt right. Soon, filming for the new series had started.

“Clarkson,” Richard booms down the phone line.

“Hammond. What’ve you got on?” Jeremy asks, sipping a beer alone in his flat, staring out the window at the road below.

“Filming that jet car thing,” Richard mumbles, and Jeremy can hear the tell-tale crinkle of a crisp packet.

Jeremy rolls his eyes into the dark. “Oh, are you going to break the hamster land speed record?”

“Piss off, Clarkson,” Richard laughs. “I may do, actually. Won’t be official, because Andy didn’t want to make me even more competitive than I am now, but I’ll find out afterwards. We’ll see what conditions are like. What’re you doing?”

Jeremy leans back against the counter and takes a pull from his beer before replying. “New Jag XKR,” he drawls, drawing out the syllables.

Richard hums. “Enjoy it. I’ll be having the time of my life blasting up and down a runway at a million miles an hour while you’re reviewing that stuffy thing.”

“Honestly, Richard, I knew you were a bit odd but I didn’t know it was this bad. Stuffy my arse. Next you’ll be telling me you’re going to sell your Porsche and buy a beetle.” Jeremy pauses and reconsiders. “Although they really are the same thing.”

“Oi!” Richard shouts, and they both burst into laughter, Jeremy folding at the waist, gasping for air.

He smiles down the phone line like a sap, although he knows Richard can’t see it. “Have fun becoming a hamster pancake tomorrow. I shall start writing your obituary now.”

“Make sure to put in how I am a sex god with a really big cock.” Richard sing-songs.

Jeremy snorts, turning away from the window and flopping down on the sofa. “Are a really big cock is more like it.”

The distance doesn’t bother him, not really—it’s more the fact that he can’t get his hands on Richard, to feel how hot he is under his touch. It’s sentimental and soft of him, he knows, but he also knows Richard feels the same way. The phone calls are good—he can picture Richard’s facial expressions as he talks—but it’s not as good as the real thing. Shaking off the sudden melancholy that wraps around him, he says goodbye, smiling as he hangs up the phone.

 

_forward_

 

It’s dawn, he dimly realises, as the light begins to stream in through the windows. He doesn’t realise how long he’s been sitting here, next to Richard’s bed, grasping onto his hand and talking about everything and nothing in particular. He’s told him how the Jaguar was (spectacular), how Top Gear dog is doing (fine), even how James cried at seeing him. Richard hadn’t reacted to anything, not even when the doctors judged him healthy enough to breathe on his own and had pulled out his ventilator. His prognosis is getting better by the hour, but he still hasn’t woken up.

Jeremy stands up and walks over to the window, looking out onto the hospital grounds. It’s autumn, now, the leaves turning to brown, starting to fall from the trees. The season of death, he thinks grimly. A season of nothingness. In comparison to summer, just a few months ago, it’s so bleak, so empty of hope.

“Jeremy,” Richard croaks from behind him.

He whirls and strides back to the bed, unable to believe his eyes: Richard, pushing himself up into a sitting position, smiling widely as he spots Jeremy.

“Jeremy,” he says again, simply, and Jeremy can’t stop a smile from forming.

He kisses Richard’s hand gently, sighs with relief as Richard caresses his cheek, the worries from the night sliding off his shoulders onto a puddle on the floor.

“You scared the life out of us, you bastard,” Jeremy mutters, but he’s grinning from ear to ear.

Richard smiles again, and even though he’s got a million needles in him, even though his left eye is still swollen and even though he has horrible bruises all over his face, it is definitely Richard’s cheeky smile, and Jeremy just grins back.

Richard is here, he’s alive, and he’s _Richard_ , and that’s all Jeremy could ever ask for.


End file.
